Parable of Lockdown
       

The children were meek behind my makeshift barricade: an
active shooter pushed his way in anyway. He Ramboed right
up to me, little beady crazy eyes darting all over my face like
a tongue. Did you know, he said, that I am not coping well
with various exigencies. I know, I said. Running into you on
the street is like getting a speck of dirt in the eye. The children
milled.

Another one booted in a few minutes later with a very
American-looking contraption that uses unleaded premium to
spray thousands of shotgun blasts per second, if you would only
give in to your impulse to caress its enormous, jutting trigger.
He pointed the barrel at me. Been wronged, he muttered. I
nodded even though it was obviously not true. He gestured at
the children with the barrel in a way that made me pee. Perform
justices, he said. I lined the children up according to their
spiritual cleanliness, and I praised or criticized or smacked each
one according to arbitrary and extemporaneous impressions.
Is it fair, he said. Yes, I said, it is totally fair, I would absolutely
never allow even a tiny inaccuracy to sneak into our great and
objective system. He handed me his weapon and stood at the
end of the line, eyes closed, jaw clenched. Go ahead, he said. It's
my turn.

A third one came in panting, flushed with exertion and
exhilaration, and hid behind the door while he reloaded each
of the thirty-five guns he was carrying. This is the greatest, he
said, game I have ever played. Like a video game, I asked, he
said no, those are meditations. This is the game of newspapers.
I shuffled back, because newspapers don't distinguish allies
and enemies; relax, he said, I'm a high scorer. No reason to
waste bullets on people who aren't government employees:
I'm past civilians. I didn't relax. The next day, the newspaper
read DEVIL'S DAY: SOUL-EVISCERATING MADMAN
SENDS INNOCENT TOWN SCREAMING TO THE
BRINK OF ANNIHILATION.

We were in lockdown and the children were singing their
lockdown song. A radio crackled somewhere and an active
shooter burst through the door with the kind of tactical nuclear
missile that you can buy at gas stations in Missouri. Little red
dots from laser sights crisscrossed the room, searching out his
body, his melon head, his pockmarked face. He cowered. He
hissed, can you tell me real quick I only have a minute can you
tell me what a pussy tastes like. I said, nothing special. He said
you are god damned wrong it is very very special it is the most
special and precious thing and they lit him up.

I was in lockdown and I was making a bonfire of the children to
keep warm. The shooter was extremely active, he was wearing
himself out. It reminded me of soccer practice, when you make
the players drill and drill, pushing them just a little further
every day because you don't have any idea what is appropriate
or what is sufficient. They spindle and they heave and they
become ropy, enraged at the ball, excessive in their off hours.
You charge them, they pay: then, sometimes, the other team
doesn't show up to the big game, and they look up at you with
exhausted mooneyes.

The next shooter dropped down through the foamboard of the
ceiling, which is just ersatz, it hides the ducts. He came down
right in the middle of the children, and I couldn't tell who was
who, but then yes, the only one with the bullet-spitting statue of
a pit bull. A moment later an abused toddler with a shouldermounted
chainsaw launcher kicked in the door, and a laid-off
security guard with an armful of anti-personnel mines swung in
through the window. The shooters circled like maypole dancers;
I smelled sex in the room. The whole thing started to seem
totally without narrative, completely unvideoable, which made
me fear for the livelihoods of the news crews. A shirt hit the
ground: the children clapped and oohed. One hot second later,
the PA crackled into life: the lockdown was lifted. Everyone
was instructed to go back to their normal business, but we were
assuredly at it already.

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Copyright © 2022 Nick Admussen All rights reserved
from Stand Back, Don't Fear the Change
New Michigan Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission